


Filigreed

by Jersey



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Breeding, Cutting, Death, Depression, Drug Addiction, Food Issues, Forced Arousal, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Serious Illness, Sex Slave, Sexual Slavery, Slavery, Suicide, Suicide Attempt, cuckold, drug overdose, non-consensual aphrodisiac use, weight loss, wrist cutting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-18
Updated: 2016-07-18
Packaged: 2018-07-25 07:35:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7524076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jersey/pseuds/Jersey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An alternate ending to Auburn's absolutely incredible "In the City of Seven Walls."</p>
<p>Rodney overdoses and dies on Baratha, leaving John slowly spiraling out of control under the Haralim's thumb.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Filigreed

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [In the City of Seven Walls](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/214057) by Auburn. 



> Please, if you have not read Auburn's "In the City of Seven Walls," you must. At the moment, I am only aware of it on Wraithbait, but you must do yourself a favor, turn back, and read the original work. At the very least, do it for your feels.
> 
> A.) You won't necessarily get where this little plot bunny is going if you don't. 
> 
> B.) It's painfully beautiful and completely deserving of your attention. 
> 
> C.) It has a happy ending whereas this admittedly depressing as sin.

 

_"I would have killed myself eventually," John stated flatly. Without you. Before the Haralim even had a chance to grow tired of him._

* * *

 

 

There would be no funeral nor any sort of interment rites. Not for a humble slave, even if he were a valuable scholar who had claimed on several occasions to be the most intelligent man in not one but two galaxies. The Selketi emissary and trade party did not even waste the effort in carting the body with them back to their home world, leaving it instead for their Barathan hosts to dispose in whatever manner they felt most appropriate and - likely - most efficient.

John swayed on his feet beside the silken palanquin, drifting along in a daze as though ferried along by the wake of the entourage's procession alone. He hadn't cried. He couldn't. Not here. Not yet. Not in front of all these strangers who had no concept of what happened that night in the servant's quarters the night before. John ached inside at the thought, the raw and bitter memory of the cold, lifeless body, but he maintained that as a private pain reserved for him and his tiny dwelling by the gardens.

Nuret had found him, slumped over his work, barely conscious, let alone lucid, and immediately went to John's side. Her fingertips had frantically fluttered and tickled the curious mixture of gesture and touch that was the slave code on John's slender, pale ankle just above his belled fetters, careful not to disturb the tinkling metal and disrupt the Haralim. As soon as the Haralim dismissed him, John had run to Rodney's side, holding him and trying anything to bring him back. When the physicist's heart struggled and ceased, John had pounded upon it, trying desperately to coax the life back into the still body, beating so hard that he felt certain a rib or two had popped under the strain of the blows. Yet that last dose of _eiff_ had been too much for Rodney's body and mind, and, in the dark hours of the dreary, stormy Barathan night, the once brilliant physicist slipped away to his addiction.

It had been John's fault, for it was John who had initiated the narcotic abuse in his sympathy and pity following Rodney's whipping. It was John who had allowed Rodney's addiction to perpetuate and spiral out of control when all the warning signs had been there, right in front of his eyes. It was John who allowed Rodney to destroy himself. John had been responsible for Rodney's safety, that had been his place before the Haralim chose him, and John had failed Rodney miserably.

John had sat on the damp stone floor and held Rodney until the dark gave way to the watery twilight of a Baratha morning settling over their rooms, trembling despite himself and rocking the limp form in his arms, as Pesha and Nuret lingered nervously and solemnly in the door frame. Even then, John had known he would not be allowed to mourn, not as the Haralim's Chosen. The fact had only been proven when Freka came to deliver a message from the Haralim requesting John's presence at her side. The Haralim's summons had gone unanswered as John shut out even Freka, stubbornly and desperately refusing to let go of Rodney. Only Freka's brute force had torn John from the body and back to the Haralim's personal entourage for their return to Selket.

John drew his breath before stepping through the shimmering, glorious event horizon of the Barathan Stargate for the arid and dusty yet spiced air of Selket, never feeling so alone in his entire life. The Haralim must have sensed this, as her delicate and elegant hand slipped between the silk drapes of the ornate, gold trimmed palanquin to grace John's shoulder. She did not look to him, her dark eyes still cast forward to the rising walls of her great keep, yet her hand remained. It brought no comfort, serving instead to turn John's stomach. His muscles tensed beneath her careful touch, and her hand fell away.

 _She_ had murdered Rodney, much as he had. It was she who had offering Rodney the brutal choice between the whip and the _moa_ for his pride and his arrogance to challenge the Rale. And, in a way, she had killed John by snuffing out that last bit of hope and reason for him to live. Rodney had been the only thing that kept John alive for all those long months of training in the flower house.

John shivered visibly despite the hot, choking and almost oppressive air of an otherwise radiant and downright glorious Selketi afternoon.

 

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Upon their return, the Haralim and the Rale retired to the private quarters, allowing John to stumble back to the rooms he had shared with Rodney. Instantly, whatever force had kept him upright for so long dispelled, and John collapsed into the bed that still bore Rodney's scent beneath the heavy perfume of the garden's flowers. His long arms stretched out, reaching for the coverlet, his fingers curling about the edge to draw it up, pulling the fabric close to his nose so he could drink in what little essence remained of Rodney. His mind unraveled as the aroma of the physicist danced in his nostrils, dredging up so many memories, both ugly and beautiful. There and then did John finally cry in painful, lurching sobs that hurt down to the core for a long time until the intoxicating pull of sleep pulled him under.

He awoke in the morning to the sixth bell chiming in the fresh air of a bright, new day, still feeling cold and hollow inside, still drinking in what little traces of Rodney remained in this abruptly alien world. About their once shared room were tiny reminders of the physicist's presence. The bottles of ink and the brushes he used to paint John rested on a table. The scattered papers of translations fluttered in the wind, waving Rodney's elegant Selketi in the warm breeze tauntingly. And, there, sitting on the table beside him, was the lavender _eiff_ like a ghastly and mocking reminder.

John rose slowly and deliberately, his fist curling about the bottle of _eiff_ for a moment before he bitterly hurled it out of the door, listening to it clatter on the steps with no satisfaction.

 

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John mistook the prior evening's respite from the Haralim's bedchambers as a sign that she intended to allow her Chosen time to properly grieve. After disposing of the damning evidence of the _eiff_ , John sat in a numb silence for a long while. Occasionally, he would rise and circle the room, surveying the little reminders of Rodney remaining before turning to his place on the chaise and drawing his knees up beneath his chin, too shocked to believe that Rodney was really gone.

In the late morning, Jehmen brought a tray of food from Tein-ve, complete with a sort of sweet porridge that reminded John of something in between a custard and rice pudding with a cinnamon like seasoning, along with a few discs of a sugary bread that tasted something like Vanilla Wafers. The cook had discovered long ago that John had a sweet tooth that she sometimes indulged with her delicate confections, especially when she found that John savored this, his favorite creation of hers. She had heard, then. Of course. Everyone would have heard by then. John lipped idly at the food, but dessert held no flavor, turning to ash on his tongue. He managed to choke down a few bites before his stomach churned and threatened to revolt; John pushed the tray aside.

In the mid afternoon, Freka appeared in the door frame and shattered any illusion that John might have time to grieve. He came bearing the Haralim's personal inquiry as to why her Chosen had not appeared as expected and demanding his presence in her private gardens immediately. John nodded numbly. He bathed and attempted to paint himself in the ornate designs of mixed Selketi and Ancient glyphs that mirrored Rodney's hand as best as possible. It came out awful, the design uneven and wavering. Yet John hadn't the time to correct it. He dressed in crisp scarlet and gold brocade silks and went to present himself to the Haralim and prostrate himself at her feet, begging forgiveness for his rudeness and tardiness. His ankle bells jingled as he moved, echoing the sound of the icy shards that danced amid his heart.

She recline upon a plush chaise in the far corner of the garden amid a sea of vibrant blooms and shaded by an ivory arbor laden with heavy, lush vines of cho flowers. Long drapes of silk shades shifted with shimmering in the Selketi breeze. Her eyes glittering darkly and lustfully from the shade. Two cups sat upon a filigree table beside the chaise, filled with a dark, red wine. The Haralim sat alone, without guards, without attendants.

"John," the Haralim purred, gesturing with a flick of her wrist for him to come to her side.

John's feet moved of their own accord, trained to respond to her every whim. He knelt before her with an elegant, practiced grace, placing his palms to the ground and touching his forehead to the refreshingly cool, cobalt tile. When he knelt upright, the Haralim smiled knowingly. She traced a long finger down the side of John's cheek along the haphazard design he had attempted. Then, with a scowl, the Haralim gripped his jaw, swiveling his face from side to side to study the design.

"This does you injustice," she hissed bitterly. John flinched inwardly but held still under her studious gaze, feeling the heat of her dark eyes sweeping over him until the Haralim finally sneered, "Who did this?"

John blinked, unsure of how to respond initially before swallowing and admitting, "I did."

The Haralim laughed, a trilling, haughty sound that came as both coyly enticing and oddly dismissive at the same time. It rang through John's ears, right through his body and down to the tips of his toes, curling them reflexively. John's loins tightened and flushed with heat at the sound, a traitorous reaction trained into him by Dullah and his ilk. Blood rushed into his face as it roared in his ears with a shame so hot that it _burnt_ him. How could he feel physically aroused at the time like this, with Rodney dead but a day?

Hot tears prickled at his eyes, but John struggled for a second to swallow them back, knowing they would only serve to anger the Haralim. Then, in a moment of defiance, John looked at her, peered directly into her face and to the desire written so plainly upon her features, and he let the tears flow in great, choking sobs. His tears blurred his vision, but, beyond them, he saw the confusion and horror in the Haralim's face, along with an imploring sort of expression. John shook his head, unable to stem his sorrows.

She gestured to Freka with a swift and curt snap of her wrist, dismissing John. He hardly felt it when Freka took him by the elbow and jerked him up to his feet. John's head swam from the sudden elevation change, spots dancing in his eyes, yet the Haralim remained constant and still in his vision as she gracefully settled back into her chaise and schooled her expression.

"Take him," the Haralim snipped. "I have no use for his presence today."

Freka nodded and pressed John into a deep, respectful bow before guiding him back to the quarters he had shared with Rodney. John collapsed into the bed once more, dragging the silken sheets close to him and breathing in Rodney's scent as he sobbed openly once more. It was a small respite from his duties as the Haralim's Chosen, but one that offered little to no comfort to his aching heart and soul.

 

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The next morning, John rose early to Freka's urging only to be ferried swiftly to the kitchens. He poked idly at the breakfast placed before him, lipping at it listlessly and unable to stomach more than a few bites. Freka sighed heavily but allowed it before guiding John to the House of Moon Flowers and his handlers for preparation. John sighed heavily as he slowly and gracefully eased down to his knees but waited for Lisha and his assistants, closing his eyes in solemn acquiescence to drift in darkness.

Someone clicked through his teeth, startling John. He blinked, unfocused for a moment, before nearly jumping. Dullah moved with lightning speed, snatching John by the chin to roughly jerk his face back and forth to survey the ink work upon it. The handler scowled intently, his brow furrowing in disdain.

"This is utterly appalling. It will _all_ have to be redone. Lisha!" Dullah snapped, waiting for the other man to scurry into the room and bow. "Strip it down, clean him well and reapply the paints."

Lisha nodded obediently. " _Hai_ , Lar Dullah."

John swallowed hard and slowly nodded as well, breathing, " _Hai._ "

All John could do was sit and stare, watching as Lisha so effectively scrubbed the last traces of Rodney from him, feeling a small part of him die inside with each little swipe of the foaming astringent. Each letter and curled brushstroke of Rodney's poorly copied hand that bubbled up and dissolved in the wash stabbed cruelly at John's heart. He sat numbly on his heels in obedient attention as shards of ice danced in his heart, barely drawing breath as Lisha's brush caressed his skin gently. Then, more so than ever, he felt the distance from Rodney, a loss he would never be allowed to grieve.

"Lisha!" Dullah snarled from the far side of the hall.

John flinched at the sound of the trainer's voice but schooled himself to perfectly trained stillness.

" _Hai_?"

Dullah drew close, so close that John could feel the fevered heat powering off of him. John licked his lips and swallowed as his heart stammered. Dullah had exerted an extreme degree of hands on training during John's time in the barracks, and, despite the time and the terror of it, John's body still bore the chemical memory woven through his sympathetic nervous system. His own body flushed in response to the proximity no matter how it sickened John, even as Dullah reached down to snatch the colonel's chin and pull his face roughly up by it. Blood rushed to John's cheeks, and he turned his eyes away as Dullah surveyed him cruelly.

"The _dranzi_ ," Dullah ordered swiftly. "Two drams before the Haralim's summons."

Lisha bowed his head low to the ground, so low that his forehead kissed the tile. "Of course, Lar Dullah."

 

xxx

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That night, John floated to the Haralim's bedchambers, easily drawn to her bed by the coy curl of her finger and the soft, shimmering caress of her whispering, silk sheets. He drank of her, drifting into the delicious embrace of her slender, tanned arms. He danced with her as the Haralim insinuated her body against his in smooth strokes, losing himself in her smoke colored eyes and a gleaming, cool sea of crisp, shining cobalt. When he came with her, it was incredible, and soul shattering, both their bodies quivering with delight for long after before lying side by side in post coital bliss until she dismissed him just before dawn.

However, when he returned to his chambers after wards, the spell of the _dranzi_ that held him so shattered in the face of the papers of Rodney's work that John still hadn't the heart to gather up and set aside. Rodney's pen stared up at him, each black ink stroke a cruel and cutting accusation to John's betrayal and complacency. Each elegant, filigreed letter of Selketi script damned John, demanding to know how, only a few days after Rodney's death, John could manage to perform so perfectly for his Haralim. Each unspoken assail screamed the same, undeniable truth; that John Sheppard really was nothing more than a whore for the Haralim.

John hurried to the bathroom gagging and retching up what little was in his stomach before turning in to dream beautiful, horrid and lurid dreams of the man that had left him.

 

xxx

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Days turned into weeks. Weeks blurred into months. And, still, John's life persisted stubbornly somehow in this city. He hardly ate and rarely slept, and, yet, he scraped by. Lisha and Dullah prepared him in the morning, and, in the afternoon, he went to the Haralim's side until she had the Rale were finished with him for the day, sometimes until just before the sun rose. And, each day, John felt himself slipping more and more until the only thing that felt substantial to him was the mask of Lisha's well applied paints.

 

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"Evening."

Tein-ve turned at John's voice, a plate already in hand for him, smiling until she caught sight of him. "Good evening, John." She set the plate down and gesture to his seat across the counter. "Please. Sit and eat."

He took his place and took his tines, making idle chatter as he did with the other cooks and servants. She shook her head solemnly. John looked awful, his costume hanging off of him at all the wrong angles. He hardly ate, mostly just pushing the food listlessly about the plate. Even under her watchful gaze, John just prodded at the meal for a time before clearing his plate as inconspicuously as possible, fooling everyone when he commented on how delicious it had been. Everyone but the cook herself. As the man dragged out the impression of eating, Tein-ve pondered at how often he had actually been eating as of late considering how scrawny John had rapidly become. The others gathered their plates and things for supper for the Haralim and the Rale, Tein-ve lingered still with John, watching him, studying how pale and drawn he had become in the slight Selketi twilight.

When John gathered his plate to clear his place, Tein-ve clucked and gave another shake of her head. "You hardly ate, John. Did you not like it?"

John paused, freezing in place, but, when he looked up, there was a softness to his face. "I'm sorry, Tein-ve. It really was delicious."

"But?" Tein-ve prompted him.

"But.... my stomach's a bit off." John held his breath, perhaps a bit too long for the cook's taste. " _She_ spent all afternoon feeding me those god-awful sugary things." He placed his hand on his stomach and patted himself gingerly. "You know those things don't agree with me."

Tein-ve melted, tasting the lie as bitter bile on her tongue, but she allowed it. "You should have said something, John." She smiled, practically beaming with maternal instinct. "When you have a moment, stop by the kitchens later. I shall make you tea and a light broth."

"It'll be late. I don't want to trouble you."

Tein-ve felt her heart break at the evasion, but she pressed, "It is no trouble, John." When he opened his mouth to balk once more, Tein-ve smiled. "I insist."

John nodded before slipping from the room for the evening. The Haralim and the Rale had demanding needs to be met, keeping him until well after midnight, well after Tein-ve fell asleep in her chair in the kitchen, still waiting for him. When the morning bells chimed, rousing both the cook and the other servants to their predawn duties, John still had not appeared. She prepared a tray and brought it to his chambers herself, setting it beside the bed where the exhausted man sprawled before slipping out in silence.

When Jehman returned later with the tray, it seemed hardly touched.

 

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Things might have gone on indefinitely were it not for the Rale. The Rale and the Haralim cared little for the steadily dropping weight of their pet so long as he continued to perform for them so attentively. Making love to the Haralim was almost easy with how heavily Dullah kept John dosed with the _dranzi_. No amount of the intoxicant, however, could erase the Rale's presence when he took John, nor could it ease the guilt. John kept his eyes closed and imagined, instead, that it was Rodney, not Djemet, that made love to him so possessively, so demandingly.

It was a small slip, then, when John breathed his name. Not the Rale's name, but Rodney's. It had been a quiet utterance, a silent prayer to the man that John refused to forget even under the drugs that coursed through his veins. However, beneath his own husky breaths, the Rale had heard it and lashed out, striking John on the cheek and batting him away with such force that it sent his head spinning.

The _moa_ hurt again that time, yes, but what hurt worse was riding through the crippling agony alone.

 

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Six long months passed, measured only in pounds of human flesh, both those continuing to trickle from John's gaunt frame and those slowly swelling in the Haralim's belly with her second pregnancy. Both the Rale and the Haralim thrilled and celebrated the coming child, but John sorrowed, sinking further and further into his despair until he began to grow ill.

It started with nothing but a trifling bit of a sniffle and a cough, progressing into a full blown cold shortly thereafter. The Rale and the Haralim were too preoccupied with one another to notice John's deteriorating condition until the Rale called on John to claim the child growing in his wife's womb by taking the body father - and John did not even have the strength to lift his own head, let alone physically service a kind no matter what drugs and aphrodisiacs the trainers fed him. While his masters were rejoicing, John had been suffering alone, slipping into pneumonia.

With the gender of this second possible heir still in question, Rale Djemet summoned his person physician to tend to John. The colonel slumbered insensate through this, his respiration rasping and wheezing. Servants tended to John's every need, bathing him down and spooning him broth and medicine, although he could not be aware of it in his fevered fits.

When lucidity returned to him, John ached inside with loneliness. On Atlantis, he'd nearly cursed the seemingly endless array of visitors and well wishers on even the shortest of stays in the infirmary for seemingly minor issues. On Selket, however, the hours stretched endlessly before him, yawning in vast spans between visits from the physicians and the arrival of food trays from the kitchen staff. Even through the moa the first time, Rodney had been there. Through the pneumonia, John lie alone for days.

In time, however, John healed, beating back the infection, but the ordeal left him weakened and spent.

 

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A month or so passed before John grew sick again, and again a few weeks later. However, the third time John fell ill, all of the household physicians were predisposed with the delivery of the Haralim's second child. John lie in agony for hours, his body quivering with fever chill, his head throbbing with each chime of the bells that rang to announce the arrival of a healthy heir.

It was only when John could not take anymore of pretending to sleep through the noise, that he rose in the predawn light, dragging himself to the bathroom and clambering into the tub, intending for a bath to warm his aching joints. John lumbering into the tub, running the hot water over him until the chills abated.

He slumped in the hot water, shuddering to himself and hugging himself against the cold of his frozen heart. John trembled from the effort of holding back his own tears before he began to cry, his chest screaming in agony with each wracked sob. First, Teyla and Ronon, followed by the certainty that he would never see his beloved Atlantis ever again. Dallah had been hard enough on him. Then, Rodney. Now, a second child fathered by him, a child that would never be his. John wondered how much a sorrows a single heart could bear.

John sat in the tub, soaking until the water cooled and until the first rays of dawn peeked over the window above him, alighting the room in a pale, orange glow and illuminating the answer in a flash of silver. The light caught and reflected into John's eyes, irking him into finding the source of the offending beam. On the edge of the sink, rested Rodney's razor. While John had been treated to the finest of depilatory creams, Rodney had been remanded a woefully tiny razor to keep his facial hair in check. John had not moved it since the day Rodney died.

Slowly, John crept from the tub, creeping like a spider over the floor and dripping on the smooth, cool tile as he moved. He snatched the razor and scrambled back to the tub. There, John stared into the gleaming metal, entranced by the sheer simplicity of it all.

As a child, John Sheppard had been a perfect little boy in Sunday school. He had followed to the good word of his preacher and studied well his catechism for his first holy communion and his confirmation. He had listened to the good word of the homily with the awe of any child, and he had strived very hard to avoid sin. They had told him it would be a grave, unforgivable sin to take his own life. As an adult, John had seen it as the final act of cowardice, never giving up in any situation no matter how bad the odds. However, all that had been before Pegasus and certainly well before Selket, when the notion of suicide had been a laughable one, something John would never consider.

John held the blade to the light, catching it and sending the reflection dancing on the wall. He wondered if it would hurt. He stared at thing, thinking of Dallah. Of Telya. Of Ronon. And, most certainly, of Rodney. They would be waiting for him. John closed his eyes and held his breath as he brought the blade down.

In the end, it was oh so very simple; just a little slice on each wrist, running down the length of his forearm. A sensation impossibly hot and cold at the same time. The warmth of his blood in the tub. The clatter of the razor falling to the floor. John eased back into the bath and let his eyes droop shut, drifting in the sensation as the darkness took him, savoring the peace to it all.

He never heard the clatter of a tray falling to the floor, nor Tein-ve shrieking his name.

 

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It was days before John was fit to be seen by anyone, and weeks before the physicians declared the Haralim well enough to see John. She summoned him immediately, along with Dullah. By that time, John's wounds had healed, but the ghastly, pink scars remained, along with a dead, hollow look to his eyes. He knew this as he knelt prostrate at the Haralim's feet and pressed his forehead to the floor as she surveyed him with the same scrutiny as Dullah. John saw only the small mercy to her that she had her personal nurse take the baby - male and the rightful heir to Djemet's rule - from his sight.

The Haralim took his hand in hers and surveyed the pink, puckered scars of self-inflicted wounds, shaking her head. The Selketi frowned upon suicide perhaps as much as Americans did, seeing is as a sickness to be distanced from, as both an unholy act and an act of cowardice. John wondered how many were like him, people who had never been driven to that point, who could never and would never understand the depths of suffering possible in a single human, in a single life. Surely, a woman of Zuleika's status could never understand in her lifetime filled with glittering gold, lavish treats, and twittering companions, sequestered away in a private universe that revolved upon her axis.

The Haralim pursed her lips into a tight frown as she turned John's scarred wrists over in her hands. "Am I truly so cruel, my Chosen?" John did not respond, but the Haralim clicked through her teeth and turned to Dullah with a bitter snap to her words. "I cannot abide such scars in my coterie. Remove him from my household."

Zuleika huffed angrily and gestured for Dullah, but John knew it was all an act. He had lived at the Haralim's fickle whim for long enough to know her intimately, both physically and emotionally. He had always thought she would simply have him killed once he had outlived his usefulness and the Selketi had their future Rale. However, there was a dull sadness behind her eyes, betraying the cutting quick to her words. She did not want to cast him away.

However, she could not abide his scars not because they marred his beauty but because they were a reminder to her. The deaths of Keder, Besma, and Rodney had been expediently dealt with and passed without a second though, a minute blip in the lavish life of the Selketi royalty as though they were nothing more than a subtle faux pas, while John's scars were permanent. Any time she took him to her bed, any time she played roes with him, those scars would be there, mocking her of the realities of death, illness, and injury that lie just beyond those walls of hers, realities that could only be kept at bay for so long before time brought them in for her. And, perhaps, as much as they were a burden for John to bear, a reminder of his attempt to take his own life, they would have been a reminder to her that she had caused his suffering.

John could have mused on it for some time, had the guards not lifted him and dragged him to the slave barracks. There, they left him. He curled up on a thin palette on the floor, wrapped his arms about himself, and waited whatever would come after the Haralim and her awful court.

It did not matter; nothing mattered anymore. John was already dead inside anyway when the slave factor came for him.

**Author's Note:**

> And, yes, for those of you who know me from Wraithbait, I took the time to touch up a few things that have been bothering me since I originally posted the story.


End file.
